“I distinctly recall that when we placed this trophy in position, sir, you said that country life no longer attracted you, and that London was the place for us.”

M.M.M. jumped up. That was quite a feat, for he was a plump young man with one real and one aluminium leg. His round, red face was earnest and his blue eyes aglow.

“Now, be fair,” he urged. “You can’t judge this farm by a chicken farm. They’re not in the same field. Given a plot of land, a few half-addled eggs and an incubator, anyone can rear fowls, but I’m talking about a man-size farm. It grows nearly everything from cows to cabbages. The farmhouse is three hundred years old, too, a positive period gem.”

“Most attractive, sir, I’m sure,” said Jolly, and added to Rollison, “Is there anything else you require?”

“Not now, Jolly.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly, and retired while Rollison leaned forward to pick up the coffee pot. M.M.M. stared first at Jolly’s straight back and then at the closed door, and said in a tone of bewilderment:

“It’s true, then.”

“What’s true?”

“That Hollywood offered you ten thousand a year for Jolly.”

“Black or white?” asked Rollison.

“Does he change colour?” demanded M.M.M., wilfully obtuse, and limped to his chair and dropped into it, took a cup of coffee and two chocolate biscuits, and went on : “I shouldn’t really, my waistline’s expanding at a rate of one button every two weeks. Roily, I’ve been thinking. How is it that a handsome, well-set-up, active, virile, immaculate, wealthy man like you has never married? Don’t tell me; I think I can read the reason in your eyes.